


Yellow (flowers and tape)

by JuncoBirds



Series: TWEWYTOBER 2020 a la Junco [1]
Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Gen, TWEWYTOBER 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27186242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuncoBirds/pseuds/JuncoBirds
Summary: The kid hasn't texted back in a while.
Series: TWEWYTOBER 2020 a la Junco [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984511
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Yellow (flowers and tape)

**Author's Note:**

> For twewytober, day 24: yellow.  
> THIS IS NOT FLUFF.

Hanekoma taps at the paperwork strewn across his desktop. Charcoal-coated easels line the wall of his studio and dust lingers in the air, reflecting off the sunbeams ever so faintly. Across the desk, such a mess of papers overlap and coat the surface that the oaken wood can hardly be seen. Tapping again, Hanekoma looks out the window, screenless and open to whatever bugs might wish to enter. Uneasiness does not come frequently to the Producer of Shibuya. Today and the day before, his gut has churned.

Scanning over the layout plans of his new shop, he leans back over the desk.

Yet, a dread blankets him, a silence he has not known in nearly two years. The kid, Joshua, hasn’t sent him anything recently. Usually, the boy keeps Mr. H up to date with the comings and goings of school, asking questions and sharing game ideas.

He hasn’t said a word for the past three days. Not a peep.

And that does not weigh lightly on Hanekoma’s soul.

The messages from the kid didn’t dwindle out either, they _stopped._ Hanekoma takes himself for no fool, he knows that Joshua would give him the cold shoulder if Hanekoma ever pushed their friendship too far. He knows this. And he knows he hasn’t done anything off-putting.

It takes a while to tap up to Joshua’s last message, but Hanekoma does so anyways, scrolling past the apologies and questions Mr. H has sent in the past two days. Perhaps he ought to back off too; if any of the other Angels ever found out that he’d told a living soul about the game, they’d rip his feathers no hesitation. Yet, they don’t know and have no way of knowing, not without coming to Shibuya themselves. As Producer, Hanekoma has some, vague sense of where players and reapers are, but it’s not concrete, just a feeling. He knows no one visits the boy’s place, and he knows no Angels have visited. If he had any sense, he would use Joshua’s silence as an excuse to cut contact with the boy.

Best to leave before things get ugly.

But something’s _wrong_ here. He re-reads the last message: _‘When’s the next game?”_ and types out yet another message:

_‘Mind if I stop by for a visit?’_

The keys click under his thumbs, and as the message sends, Hanekoma holds his phone with both hands. The game’s tomorrow. If there’s anything Hanekoma can do, he needs to do it now.

The current composer lacks fear; doesn’t understand why the players scream rather than fight, and it’s been an uphill battle for Hanekoma to control what little he can of the games. It’s a wonder no one’s usurped her yet. He’ll be busy the next few days. Joshua knows this. If he wants to talk, now is the time.

Hanekoma rises from his seat and makes for the door, grabbing his sunglasses on his way out.

~o0o~

The kid lives on the edge of Shibuya, just within range of Hanekoma’s territory. As such, he walks. It takes little time to cross the city. People move along the streets with him, walking through him when their paths align. Music on beatboxes and from commercial buildings wafts through the air, jagged to the tune of Shibuya’s eccentric Composer. The sound dims the further he goes, all the way up to the apartment complex, two towering buildings with balconies on every floor. He moves around to the side, off the main streets, and looks up to where he knows Joshua to live. No one alive on the balcony.

Noise perch on the metal railings, their trills crawling and itching, waiting with staring eyes for an unhappy soul. Normally, Joshua keeps them away, their music too crude for his tastes.

Hanekoma keeps going. Usually, the kid meets him in the miniscule park behind the building. There’s a bench for sitting and few people for eavesdropping. Even reapers don’t wander off this far, usually.

Idly, Hanekoma checks his phone again, knowing it hasn’t gone off, but checking nonetheless.

Nothing.

He rounds the corner.

The benc-

_Yellow._

Yellow tape surrounds the side of the building.

Hanekoma move closer, steps muffled.

‘Danger.’

‘Do not cross.’

‘Crime scene, do not cross.’

_Yellow._

‘Do not cross.’

He swallows.

Turning, he looks to the building’s entrance, to the door that Joshua should exit from, to the steps where Hanekoma sat and showed his friend his latest sketches, to where they laughed about nothing at all when Joshua’s questions ran out.

A small shrine stands to the side of the door. Flowers, toys and snacks lie in wait. Petals shimmer on their stalks, fresh and so very alive, marigolds, tulips, daffodils and chrysanthemums; yellow and bright and cheery. A picture, in monotone of a young boy with soft grey hair beams out from behind the gifts.

Joshua.

He’s dead.

Hanekoma sinks down, shutting his eyes. “J, I… the game….”

A stain on the ground.

The rope and the flowers.

_He asked when the next game would start. He-_

Hanekoma covers his mouth. He looks back to the bench, where no one sits and nothing, not even a shadow, remains.

He trembles.

Above him, the apartment complex looms. Hanekoma does not need to go up to know, he feels it in every fibre of his soul: the roof will be locked now. The place where Joshua had pointed at his wings and asked him, ever so, mocking coyness, his eyes glinting with unbridged mischief, ‘can you fly with those?’ He could. He did. He showed him. They ate ice cream up there and pointed out the spots in the city where it would be nice to just sit and watch if they could get there.

He knew.

He _knew_.

No one can hear him, but Hanekoma shudders, hands to his face as his eyes redden and his throat closes. He chokes, the sound muffled by his hands.

_His boy is dead._

“Why…?”

The yellow tape provides no answer, but Hanekoma already knows.

He knows it’s his fault.

**Author's Note:**

> other TWEWYTOBER prompts are done as drawings on my tumblr: [Juncobirds](https://juncobirds.tumblr.com/). I promise they're all not depressing af. They're tagged as 'twewytober 2020' for mid-level convenience.


End file.
